The Ballad of the Eagle and the Direwolf
by Lord Kagrenac II
Summary: In hundreds of ships, they came to conquer Britannia and achieve the dreams of their emperor. However, the land they descend upon is different, frightenly so. Read as these lost souls, who call themselves Romans with pride, adapt to this new world and battle the uncertainties that come from living in it. Rated T for now.
1. Chapter 1

_"An action committed in anger is doomed to fail." – Genghis Khan, conqueror and military genius._

* * *

The fleet had been battered by a powerful storm, but they had prevailed. It was destined, like their people said.

Lucius Verinius was an aristocrat and patrician from Patavium, north of Italia. His father had been a commander under Caligula, then murdered by the Praetorian Guard.

He held emperors now in contempt and pity. Pity because their lives were forfeit if they could not tackle a problem in time, be it barbarian raids or hunger in the streets. And contempt because once corrupted, their antagonistic ways knew no bounds.

Now, Emperor Claudius had devised a thrust into the island dubbed Britannia. An invasion mainly composed of four legions plus the auxilia and cavalry recruited from the different tribes in neighboring Dacia.

Obviously, a military conquest to cement his reign after Caligula left the empire trembling in rage and fear.

"Close yet?" His dear friend and subordinate Aulus Crispus groaned, sitting up from the bed where he was staring at nothing, most likely bored.

Lucius smirked. "Most likely, though I told you that two days ago."

The other man groaned in disgust, anger and desperation. "This is so pointless. It was just the channel to cross! Should have taken us less than a week!"

"Sometimes, the winds do not blow in our favor, my friend."

Scoffing, Albus took an apple and began chomping on it. "Bollocks, this shit. The men are exhausted out of doing nothing except whore among themselves and trying to take the auxilia's slaves."

It was true. The life of a soldier in the Roman Empire was harsh and unforgiving. They were expected to… rid of their urges in whatever ways they could, so long as no death was at stake. However, that life was not without its benefits either.

Loot in treasures and slaves was something a Roman soldier could hope for and achieve. Some even returned as rich as a nobleman and subsequently were promoted in social status. Of course, provided they supported the Senate or Emperor.

A stern look crossed Lucius' face. "If they are caught on the act, they will be punished."

Now it was Albus' turn to smirk. "You would not do it, especially to your own legion. Golden boys, they are to you."

"And if you do not stop with your incessant jabbering, I will have you cleaning my own latrine for a week."

"But you said it would take us less than a few days to arrive."

"Who said anything about your duty just being on a ship?"

Albus sneered, much to his companion's delight. "Fine, but do not come hounding me when you are utterly bored."

With that, the cohort commander left the chambers, most likely to see what the scenery was outside.

Lucius knew he should have been outside all this time spent talking to his friend, but he was exhausted of just seeing… blue.

And just when he was about to get up, a soldier burst through the door and saluted. "Sire, we have spotted land!"

Of course, he could hear Albus' racket outside, probably shouting to the gods his thanks and delight.

"Very well, keep the men in line Sixtus." Lucius nodded to him and with purpose, began walking outside his chambers. "Have Alaric and his idiotic arses to start assembling our ships to land."

"At once."

The Roman general sighed. Finally, it was time to match up to Julius Caesar and see if they could finally conquer this cursed land for their so called emperor.

Lucius looked at the land, far away but getting near their fleet.

"The die is cast."

Those words would be remembered for centuries after the general had made them vocal at the top of his ship, en route to a land full of myth and mystery.

* * *

"I told you to get out of there!" Marcianus snarled. "Fool! What got you there?"

Laughing, Severus extended a hand to his friend. "It was an accident! Our men got excited at the prospect of finally arriving to our destination!"

"Or perhaps you were trying to bed one of the barbarian's slaves." Antoninus replied to his friend as he approached.

The three men had been friends and brothers in arms since their induction into the Legion six years before. One could not be found without the other two. Some of their fellow soldiers honestly thought they were brothers in blood but that was a lie, much to Antoninus' relief.

"Enough of this nonsense! We are to be called on board, the general will give a speech before the landing."

Marcianus and Severus straightened at their de facto and self-proclaimed leader. He was the smart one of their group and as such, followed after him.

"Come on, before the centurion goes whip happy at us." Marcianus muttered while Severus just smiled and followed after the others.

Arriving, they saw the other ships in the horizon making way to the new land that promised loot and glory.

"Lads! We have finally caught sight of the land our emperor has proclaimed as ours!" General Lucius shouted to his men, much to their delight. "It is in our destiny, in our blood that the might of Rome descend upon this people! We will conquer and prevail for millennia!"

The legionaries shouted their approval, all battle ready for the fight soon to come.

"You will be remembered for this! Glory awaits us!"

As the shouts died down, the land seen was covered in forests and tress close to the shore. It was as described in Julius Caesar's memoirs made a full century before them.

Their forefathers had been there and repulsed a huge barbarian attack. They had fought and bled with one of the finest military leaders the world had ever seen.

The anxiety had been building around all of the men. The auxilia and barbarian men sworn to service of Imperial Rome were the same, albeit their eyes sparkled with delight as finally a battle was to be fought soon.

Roman soldiers stood at the ready, their eyes cold and unforgiving. Discipline was the main builder of Roman success in battle. Their soldiers were the finest the world had ever seen and their logistics, level of organization and strategy made the Spartans pale in comparison.

While the Spartans arguably had the better soldiers in terms of training and discipline, the Romans were much more flexible and jack of all trades. If not fighting, they built defenses, paved roads and other marvels that the Spartans would have found dumbfounding.

The Romans were also unrelenting and cunning, something the Spartans were no in their many wars with fellow Greeks.

Antoninus then saw the flagship of their overall leader, Aulus Plautius, as it stood in front with their men also at the ready.

Most of the soldiers respected Plautius but his forte was diplomacy and political cunning. The men most of their men saw to, including their commander, was Vespasian.

He was a brilliant general and strict but just leader. Many of his men's squabbles were settled fairly and squarely. He was also said to admire barbarian military prowess, so his own legion had Sarmatian horse archers and Germanic fighters. His own personal bodyguards were Sarmatian.

The ship he commanded was at their left. Marcianus saw him standing proud in his regalia, eyes coldly set on their target.

Finally, the moment of reckoning began.

"Dismount and land!" Lucius barked. "Take the land and establish defensive positions!"

The orders given, the men immediately began descending on land and ran as fast as their feet could carry them through the sea, eyes fixed on the shore.

Lucius and his subordinate Albus watched as the men of other ships as well as their own made to land and established their large shields before them to protect their brethren in their land.

Eyes narrowing, Lucius turned to his friend. "I thought the Catuvellauni were expecting us."

"Scared, most likely." Albus smirked. "Victory or death, sir."

The main motto of the Legion was just that, Victory or Death. Nothing short of an overwhelming victory was expected of the legions and their commanders. That or die trying.

"Impossible." The deep voice of Vespasian came to their ears as he approached. "The Britons are foolishly brave enough to try and defeat us right at our landing point."

Albus immediately straightened and saluted, as Lucius just did a second flat before him.

Vespasian was one of their most brilliant military minds and heavily respected in the circles of the four legions and auxilia making their landing in the supposed Britannia.

He was also a charismatic leader and overall good man to know, though his angry side was something they dreaded.

His voice would descend to barely above a whisper and his words cut through even Parthian heavy horse armor.

"Maybe sir, but this situation is closely moving into a mystery." Lucius said after a moment. "My scouts are already working around the area."

Nodding, Vespasian turned to his right and called for his head scout.

In response, a man with scale armor and a pointy helmet ran and saluted. "How can I be of service sir?"

"Makvar, I want you to scout these woods, swiftly and stealthily. If you mind anything worthwhile bring it, am I clear?"

The Sarmatian nodded with a smirk. "It will be done, sir."

After that, the man mounted his horse alongside three of his fellows and departed at full speed towards the woods.

Lucius lost sight of him after a few moments. "Let us hope he brings clarity as to our enemy whereabouts."

"He will." Vespasian supplied confidently. "I am honestly surprised we have not met even one of the Atrebates here."

"They are probably nursing their wounds after the beating Caratacus gave them not too long ago."

Vespasian nodded but his eyes showed the doubt most felt at the moment. "I pray to the gods you are right."

Eyes turning to their front, they saw their men preparing palisades and hole defenses rapidly, working in tandem with their brethren.

The auxilia were now guarding while the heavy infantry worked. The next day, it would be the other way around.

According to numerous generals and statesmen, this ensured no infighting to occur, as all men did their fair duty without exceptions.

"I sure hope this calamity is all but my imagination, gentlemen." Aulus Plautius scowled as he approached. "No sight of the enemy tribe or even our supposed barbarian allies! Have the gods been mocking us ever since we left Gaul?"

"Sir?" Vespasian prodded with a blank face but Lucius saw the man's eyes twinkling mischievously.

Aulus sneered. "Please Vespasian, you perfectly know what I am referring to!" He ranted. "Almost two weeks at sea, when it would take a ship less than four days with full wind, which we had!"

Granted, it took them eight days to arrive to land but their general liked to exaggerate during his furious tirades.

"Perhaps the wind pushed us to a different place of landing, sir?" Lucius replied with an even tone.

Shaking his head, their leader snarled. "Impossible! And even if it did, we would have noticed!" The man then deflated slightly. "Without confirming or denying these allegations we have come to, we must not proceed into enemy territory."

"I see your scouts are reporting back, Lucius." Vespasian intervened in an opportune moment, knowing the exploding temper of his general.

As said, the scouts wearing Roman cavalry regalia saluted respectfully to their commanders.

Their leader, Valens, nodded towards Lucius. "Sir, there are about six hundred men less than a few leagues away from the coast. They do not know of our landing to be sure, but are agitated towards something coming from the cliffs."

"I wonder why." Aulus muttered sarcastically.

Valens shifted nervously but managed a shaky. "They do not seem to be Britons."

"I beg your pardon?" Vespasian raised an incredulous eyebrow while Aulus' face slowly turned red in rage.

"What he is saying is true, sire." The scaled Sarmatian arrived, his face grim while holding something in his hand.

Lucius shook his head slowly in annoyance and stupefaction. "Get to the point."

"Those six hundred men are clad in mail armor and have huge swords, true it may sound like the warriors from Gaul or Britannia, but this…" He looked at the object in his hand.

Aulus snarled, his temper flaring. "Well, speak! What the hell is it?"

"Our men stayed in the shadows as we sent our horses back, seeing the supposed enemy was near." Vespasian and Lucius raised eyebrows almost at the same time when the word supposed was muttered out. "They were agitated towards the cliffs so we had the chance to cut this out of one of their horses and retreated back."

A few moments later, the Sarmatian finally said. "These are brilliant. They use them in their saddles for better support and power. I have never seen anything like it."

"Jupiter swallow me whole!" Aulus ranted and retreated back to his tent.

Vespasian shook his head at him and turned to Makvar. "Excellent work. What else did you see?"

"Not much else, but their little gathering had about six hundred to one thousand men. Thankfully they are too far from our camp to hear us but soon enough they will notice."

Lucius eyed the strangely important object. "Can you replicate that?"

"Of course."

Nodding, Vespasian said to his scout. "Expect a raise for this, good work. Replicate it and your men will have a raise as well."

Smiling slightly, the Sarmatian bowed to his leaders and left to his own camp.

"This is not looking good." Lucius said grimly. "When the hell did the barbarians in Britannia get this?"

"And how, exactly, did they abandon their preferred chariots over pure cavalry." Vespasian mused. "Strange... strange indeed."

Shaking his head, Lucius turned to his superior in all but rank. "Sir, would you like to have a drink with me? I am sure we can discuss this better at my tent."

"Lead the way, Lucius."

Both men then walked away while Albus stood there dumbly, forgotten and scared. "Where the bloody hell are we?" He exclaimed before deflating and then departing towards the palisade.

Barking orders and seeing horrified faces on their men after a few threats suddenly became a better prospect than dreading.

* * *

Robert Flint snarled. "Seven hells! What are you saying?"

His scout shook his head. "My lord, they just appeared out of nowhere. We noticed after one of our saddles was…. cut." Even he could not comprehend why these strangers had done that.

"So you followed them?"

"They noticed some of our movements but we ended up in some bushes close to the cliffs. They are…" The scout shook his head. "They are more than twenty thousand, and armed to the teeth."

"Just what I needed!" Lord Flint muttered. "A marauding tribe attacking us from the cliffs and now a huge host parading in my coasts."

"What do we do then, father?" Another voice cut through with anxiety. "Should we call all of our banners?"

"We do not even have enough men to repel this tribe with our banners and you are considering to fight this army as well?"

The lord was then met with silence. It was true, though. The Flints were once a proud family but now a shadow of their former selves. It was a miracle that no other family had taken over them.

That and the Starks being the honorable lords they always were.

"Send a raven to Winterfell, my lord?" The scout then supplied with a grim face.

Robert nodded. "We have no other choice."

Departing with dreaded steps, the lord of Flint's Finger was experiencing fear for the third time in his life.

The first was when his late wife was dying with his twin children. That sent him into a drunken rage for a year before his eldest and only son set him straight

Second time was his son fighting bandits and the same tribe that just grew in number.

Now this…

"I hope Rickard comes here fast." He said to nothing and no one in his private chambers.

He then closed his eyes and prayed to the gods old and new.

* * *

They had seen this huge host amassing on the coasts, waiting and sending scouts to see the terrain.

For the first time, his leader was afraid but also now much more invigorated to finally rid of the Flints establish himself as the overall ruler of the Flint.

Unlike the marauding tribes that still plagued the Arryns, hers actually had royal blood. Descended from the kings of old even, back to the Age of Heroes.

She was also afraid of this strange host.

From her observations their cavalry was moderate at best in terms of armor and power, complete joke compared to theirs. However, their infantry worked hard every single day under the sun and trained. They were fierce fighters even without seeing them actually fight.

Their armor was simplistic at best but she was not deceived. The standards they wore maybe had a link to the units they had, like the banners for them.

Their discipline was baffling as well.

Surely, gaining an enemy out of them was out of the question. Before the Starks could arrive, they could wipe out the entire peninsula within a month.

They needed to approach them first before the pretender to the land, Robert Flint.

Of course, her idea was shot down by her father. Not only did he disapprove of her being a warrior but also grew angry at her as his wife died.

He just wanted her to breed children for the family.

As if that would happen.

"Orders, milady?" One of her men bowed to her respectfully.

She smiled at him. "Stay put, but send your best scout to see what these…. invaders are doing for the time being."

"Of course, milady."

Smiling, she looked up to the sky, now turning dark as the moon took over duties from the sun. She was Myrcella, and she knew she was destined for great things.

Too bad she did not know for what exactly.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for stopping by and seeing this. I will await for your input and see if you like it or would like to make certain points to me.**

**Anything helps, really.**

**Also, this is not a copy of A Legion for Westeros but that fic is amazing, I can tell you that. The stirrup was obviously a shout out to him. Not many people know the Romans did not have those for their horses. The asiatic peoples were the ones who then brought it later on.  
**

**Differences you will find between his work and mine. If he sees this, I am fan man, you are good at this.**

**In case you noticed by a small little name there, you will notice this is not the current time of the books…**

**Comment, rate and subscribe and thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

_"In war, truth is the first casualty." – Aeschylus_

* * *

The gods must have been mad. How could this possibly be right? What were the odds of the information recently acquired from ravens being true?

Lord Rickard Stark prided himself in being a just, worthy ruler that his bannermen followed loyally. He also liked to have honesty and straight forward responses in dire circumstances.

This looked like it.

According to Lord Robert Flint, marauding rebellious tribes had amassed to such a point that his own forces could not contain them from having the whole peninsula destroyed in the conflict soon to follow.

However, the tribes he could contain, after calling his banners to battle and pacifying the region with a just but firm hand. This mysterious host, though…

It was something out of a child's book.

Over thirty thousand and heavily armed, just popping out of nowhere in the coasts, ready to battle and already reinforcing their position as if knowing that conflict would arise.

What was really going on at the Flint's Finger? What this a ruse by the Greyjoys? Surely, their insane antics and ambitious acts sometimes got out of hand but would they risk this with the Targaryens?

The last dragon may have died but the dynasty had a firm hand on the throne and very well trained troops, all capable of great destruction.

Indeed, they were something he wanted out of his lands, knowing how the Targaryen Army would just lay waste to towns and cities without regard as they did not care. This was the North, after all.

Always a point of friction between the crown and the Starks, really. The North was considered harsh, unforgiving, undesirable and overall inferior to the rest of the other kingdoms.

There were no reports of direct combat between the mysterious host and Lord Flint's forces, but that would soon change, if the desperation of the lord was to be considered in his messages.

He had pleaded for help in greater numbers and had assured that his host of more than two thousand men would not be able to defeat the tribes, much less the host in the coasts.

It was time, it seemed.

Time for the Starks to take to the battlefield and show just why the North was harsh but also fierce.

"Winter is coming." The lord mumbled somberly as he placed the message to the side and moved to take some wine.

A good drink always did wonders in dire situations if someone ever voiced against it.

His wife was one to take a cup or two depending on his offspring's shenanigans, after all.

"My lord." His maester approached with a somber face. "What should we do?"

Lord Stark just looked at him, his intense grey eyes holding the maester in place. "Call the banners."

"Of course, my lord."

Less than an hour later, the lord of Winterfell saw how dozens of ravens took to the skies to deliver the call to each and every one of the houses sworn to serve him and his cause.

It was time for war.

* * *

"We should march inland and take positions." Lucius offered to Vespasian.

The more experienced military officer looked at him with a blank face. "Maybe, but information of this land is sketchy at best, not to mention their heavy cavalry."

"And we are taking care of that." Lucius nodded. "But if we stay at the coast, we could be pushed back and drown."

"True." Vespasian frowned. "Do not forget, though, that this is looking less and less than Britannia."

A sound of their tent being moved interrupted them.

"A complete clusterfuck!" Albus barked as soon as he entered his best friend's tent, not aware of Vespasian. "Where the hell are we? Gods damn us all! We should…" His words died in his throat as he had a cup of wine on his hand and noticed Vespasian looking at him with a mildly amused face.

Lucius was trying hard to contain his laughter. Even if this was a welcoming distraction, it still would be disrespectful to do so in front of their best asset in this so called campaign.

"Thirsty sir? I will go bring more wine!" Albus' eyes were wide and fearful, expecting retribution for his quirky antics. "Here, let me…"

Vespasian chuckled quietly, his blue eyes alight with amusement. "Do not pressure yourself Albus, take a seat, this discussion should also include you."

With that, Lucius laughed loudly, no longer caring for his superior in all but name and his dumb friend. "Yes, take a seat."

Blushing and stuttering a thank you, Albus took that seat offered by probably the most powerful and influential man in their camp.

"While you were explaining to us in your own way our rather precarious situation." Vespasian began. "Our thoughts were on the future of this expedition."

Albus blinked before nodding slowly. "The soldiers are confused and restless, sir."

"We all are." Lucius shook his head and frowned. "That device discovered… it is giving me bad omens about this place."

"Agreed." Vespasian looked towards the exit of their tent. "Makvar has done a marvelous job and most of our cavalry has it but… not well trained at the moment to exploit it, unlike the... locals."

"As it has always been, then. We must put our faith in the legionaries." Lucius responded.

Albus smiled weakly. "Our men are hardy, they can withstand anything."

"Tell that to Crassus." Vespasian looked at him with a blank face. "He paid the price for doing so."

Everyone in the table remembered Crassus' story clearly.

A man so rich he was rumored to actually piss molten gold on his leisure time. He was also a great politician but a somewhat lacking commander.

With Caesar and Pompey being such great military leaders and accomplished tacticians, he felt little to them, inferior even.

Looking for glory and honor, not to mention even more riches, he assembled a huge army and marched to the Parthian Empire, attempting what Alexander had done centuries earlier.

What he found was an early grave and the almost extinction of his own family name.

Heavy Roman infantry was the most disciplined force in the world and not even the great phalanxes of Alexander could have beaten it, but the fast and reliable cavalry of the Parthians did.

In a quick and resolute victory, Crassus' army was crushed, his legions' eagles captured and more than ten thousand men taken prisoner.

It was so humiliating that now the name of the richest man the world had ever seen was a joke.

Comments like 'He should have been with Caesar,' or 'if only his riches equaled in military genius' followed after his image.

Needless to say, Crassus was a great reminder that Roman military power was most certainly matched if facing cavalry with no support of its own alae or more agile skirmishers.

This was why Vespasian liked the Sarmatians. They were incredible horsemen and a hardy people. They could shoot with the bow from the horse or fight hand to hand. They wore lorica hamata, or scaled armor. They were clearly the finest asset to their cause beside the heavy infantryman of the legion.

It there was one thing any military commander dreamed of was versatility in the battlefield from all his men.

He had it in his alae as archers and shock cavalry and his legionaries as disciplined soldiers and builders.

That was the perfect symphony of an army that could topple any in the known world.

Known world, which did not include this one they were currently set upon.

"Do not fret yourself sir." Lucius spoke quietly but with conviction. "We have an experienced core of men with a good chain of command."

Albus nodded with a slight smirk. "We have the best tacticians and strategists, not to mention our dear silver-tongued superior."

The three men laughed into the night, for once not caring about their dangerous situation.

That would soon change, however.

* * *

Antoninus sighed in annoyance as his two friends chattered endlessly about their sexual exploits in the border with Germania.

"She was so voluptuous! Blonde, green eyes and an arse so fine I was wondering if my tongue had tasted dirt as soon as I saw her." Marcianus boasted with a smirk.

Their other friend snorted. "You probably had too much wine and your hand to think of something that good for a bastard like you."

"Lay off my back." Marcianus glared at him. "As I was saying, we skipped pleasantries, I think she mentioned that she was a daughter to a chieftain, but details get fuzzy after."

Their self-declared leader rolled his eyes. "What a load of shit."

"Oi!" The storyteller glared at his other friend. "It is all true, for you see-"

The conversation died as soon as a Centurion stepped into their tent, his brown eyes cold and fierce. "Get outside you lazy cunts!"

As soon as the bark came out of their superior officer, the three men leaped out of their tent and marched to the palisade in the second floor.

Their shields and swords were taken from a small table underneath the palisade.

When they got to their destination, there was an uneasy quiet. It was then followed by the sounds of drums and war. The soldiers' ears perked up at the sound.

Marcianus saw Vespasian and Lucius riding their horses sporting the recent improvements done by the barbarian mercenaries. They were standing proud with their full regalia coolly taking in their surroundings and most likely inspecting for any mistake in their defenses.

"Multiple figures, fighting sire." A sentinel informed Aulus, who was at the top of the tower in the palisade with a scowl on his face. "Mail coat armor and spears from what we can see."

"I can see that." Aulus gritted his teeth. "Inform my commanders that we shall stand guard for the remainder of the night, no exceptions!"

"At once, sire."

The so called figures were busy fighting it out with other figures. There were clashes of swords and painful cries.

Horses rammed into men while spears pierced into the war animals.

It was truly a chaotic yet entertaining sight.

Most of the legionaries were watching avidly as their possible enemies beat each other into submission. There was no distinction of who was who but the sight was all the more positive for Aulus and his men.

An enemy divided was easily beaten.

Aulus smirked, finally showing positive emotion. "Britannia will be mine."

One of the soldiers nearby rolled his eyes and muttered to his comrade. "The idiot is still delusional about this being the land of the Britons."

"Shut up, Severus!" Antoninus hissed, enraged. "You will get us flogged!"

Marcianus ignored their bickering and turned to see the figures slowly gaining more form thanks to the fire being handled by some of the horsemen that just entered the fray.

His eyes widened and he heard his friends gasp. Other legionaries around them simply let out breaths of shock or disbelief.

Thousands of bodies lingered the battlefield as the battle lost the rage it had gained.

Barbarian looking infantry soldiers, using brown and black leaves on their armor had routed the more professional looking army and were now in hot pursuit.

The shouts were strange, just as the language but the soldiers around Marcianus did not have to know the meaning to understand what was going on.

Despair.

Utter despair and fear lingered as the more civilized barbarians were being slaughtered.

A young man on his horse blew his horn and shouted animatedly, waving his left hand while he used his right to pummel a barbarian with his sword.

Within seconds, he was surrounded and thrown from his horse, subsequently being decapitated by a strong looking barbarian holding a cleaver.

"Incredible battle, I must say." Albus looked at his friend with a grin. "Finally, something fun to watch, at least."

Rolling his eyes, Lucius scoffed. "They rely too much on long swords and not on formation fighting, now we have seen how capable they are."

"And it seems their cavalry has been severely weakened. Truly, civil wars, as long as they are outside of our country, do certainly help." Vespasian mused, his cold blue eyes watching the battle scene carefully.

Aulus marched down the steps with renewed vigor, a pleased grin on his face. "Sons of Rome! Tomorrow we march to conquer what is rightfully ours!"

Shouting and cheering were all that was heard as even Lucius and Albus joined the cheering though Vesparian kept a frown on his face.

It was time to consult his barbarian friend and advisor, Makvar.

A thorough scouting was needed if they were going to win this war.

His father had always told him that information meant power, and during a war it was very crucial.

* * *

Makvar was in a happy mood. He had been hard at work with his fellow men to replicate the strange object that now was giving them so much more power.

Chargers and spears could be quite useful for shock cavalry like the ones from his own people.

It did help that he had a good friend and advisor in Vespasian.

Years back he was a lowly auxilia fighting in lower Dacia until Vespasian did his own scouting and approached him with an offer he simply could not refuse.

Within days, he had been annexed to Vespasian's personal guard and soon after was approached by Vespasian on scouting duties and questions regarding the Sarmatae.

At first, Makvar thought Vespasian was looking for a way to mock him and his culture, much like other Romans had done to his people for generations. It did not help that the man was hard to read, always keeping a composed face even when drinking.

However, he was proved wrong when Vespasian began implementing his answers into action by having a pure scout group made almost purely of Sarmatians and Getae. There were even Parthians in the ranks.

Vespasian had then approached him with yet another offer, one that puzzled yet excited him.

He was to be made head of that scouting group and advisor to him in exchange for his absolute loyalty and devotion.

Makvar was grinning to a blank faced Vespasian as he nodded. Just then, a smile appeared on the Roman, letting the Sarmatian know how happy he was of the former's decision.

And right now at this moment in the fabled land of the supposed Britannia, he was training and drilling his men when Vespasian approached.

Dressed in full military regalia and his own helmet still on, the Roman nodded respectfully. "Makvar."

"Sire." The Sarmatian nodded back. "What can I do for you?"

Cold blue eyes stared at the green ones of the Sarmatian. "I need a thorough scouting of these woods before our… esteemed general leads us unto glory."

Smirking, Makvar nodded. "Of course sire, it shall be done."

"Do try to take prisoners, we truly need to see what language they speak, our mercenaries from Britannia do not know."

Makvar frowned. "So, just as I thought, we are truly lost."

"Quite, but even then we cannot go back to Rome empty handed now can we?" Vespasian smirked. "We need to be sure of this… land and its locals before fully committing action but my decision has been overruled."

The Sarmatian looked at his superior officer and saviour with a sparkle in his green eyes. "Just for you to know, we will have your back, regardless of the circumstances."

Vespasian looked at him carefully before smiling. "If I could go back and pat myself for the wonderful decision in hiring you, I would."

Departing with a smirk, Vespasian did not miss the smile on the Sarmatian's face.

It was good to see that some people, whether Roman or not, kept their words in action and devotion. He was really going to reward Makvar after this campaign was done.

* * *

Lord Flint sobbed and drank wine as the news hit him yet again.

His son, his heir, his pride and joy had been slaughtered like an animal alongside one thousand of their best men at arms.

The man raged for a full day about the news before grabbing the nearest wine bottle and drinking it into stupor.

Perhaps in the delusion to see his son again.

How could he send him on a scouting mission? Why? How could he be so idiotic?

To his servants, it was clear he was losing his head in madness and grief. Losing his wife and twin sons was one thing but now losing his best friend and his own flesh and blood was quite another.

He was now alone.

The steward of his castle and master at arms, Ser Jon Foster, had now taken overall command of the garrison and was sending small scouting parties to see what the rebels were up to.

Some lords then refused to send their own men in fear of being at the mercy of the marauding tribes.

Lord Rickard Stark was marching with a host of twenty thousand swords and five thousand horsemen down from Winterfell.

If only he could march faster.

"My lord." Ser Jon entered his lord's premises. "The rebels are closing down on us."

A growl came from the drunk lord. "Let them!" He screamed. "Let them come and I will slaughter each and every one of them! I want their heads on a stick! I want all of their young boys killed!"

Nodding, Jon said. "Of course, my lord."

He did not have an answer to the tearful tirade the lord went through. Jon had been close to Fredik, even considered him a younger brother.

When the news came he shed tears and promised retribution to the tribes.

"A father should not bury his own son." Lord Flint muttered with tears streaming down his face. "Fredik should be doing that for this old fool."

Ser Jon then left the premises to leave his lord grieve more. He clearly knew that Lord Flint was battle tested but right now he was in no condition to lead, as he would just let out his grief and die fruitlessly.

As soon as he entered the main hall, a soldier arrived in a hurry. "M'lord! The tribes are marching back!"

Blinking in shock, the steward's eyes narrowed. "What exactly do you mean marching back?"

"They are, sire! And in a hurry too! They left some siege equipment and turned back!"

That could only mean two things, one good and the other not.

"You think a conflict between them could be going on?"

The scout shook his head. "No m'lord, they would have been fighting it out by now outside the gates."

Ser Jon's eyes widened. "The strange host, the one on the coast!"

This was problematic. They could be the ones now destroying the tribes and slaughtering anything in their path. The fact that they spoke different languages and had strange, unified banners was also problematic. He remembered the sketch of one of the scouts. It was a fierce looking eagle with strange symbols on it.

It had long been decided that they did not belong to any house of Westeros. Only possibility was a force of sellswords from the Free Cities.

"Gods help us." He muttered. Ser Jon then turned to the scout. "Get your best men and see what these… people are up to."

"At once!"

The scout left, leaving Jon alone to brood and plan what was next. He needed eyes on the forest before the tribes or the mysterious host made their move.

Lord Stark was still a month away, and the days were clearly getting longer.

* * *

Aulus frowned when the scouts came back after more than seven hours. Vespasian had convinced him to wait until they arrived to assess the situation more carefully.

Rome, however, was not patient in her endeavours. She demanded results, and very good ones at that.

When Makvar approached him, the Roman general saw a woman on his saddle. She looked frightened and confused by the situation or her surroundings.

Probably both.

"What is the meaning of this?" Aulus shouted. "You bring back a barbarian wench? Your women not good enough?"

"She had a small group of heavily armed scouts, all taken care of." Makvar calmly replied. "She must be important, not to mention that she killed two of my best men."

At that, Aulus paused. It was not rare for barbarian women to be trained in combat. Mostly, however, they were daughters of chieftains and leaders rather than common folk.

"Hmmm…" The Roman carefully watched her, his cold hazel eyes assessing her worth. "Put the wench in Vespasian's tent, after all it was _his_ idea to send you."

Not rising to the bait, as in many occasions before, Vespasian nodded. "Give her food and wash her, she smells awful."

The legionaries around laughed and leered at her with lust.

As expected, the woman recoiled from the stares.

"Yes, sire."

Makvar then took the woman gently and led her to the tent of his officer, not before hissing at a legionary who had gotten too close.

The devotion and loyalty in his voice made Aulus uneasy and sometimes hostile towards Vespasian, but as always, Lucius approached first.

"According to the other scouts, there is an army of around a thousand or two thousand barbarians, coming at us."

Vespasian nodded. "Probably felt our pressure at their ranks."

"Or are mad that we captured one of their whores." Aulus sneered. "We shall give them a proper taste of Roman sword, then." He then departed without even saying anything to his commanding officers.

Lucius sneered at his retreating back. "I could arrange for a barbarian to get close enough to him."

"Careful, my dear Lucius, for that is the talk of rebels." Vespasian replied with slight amusement.

Chuckling, the other officer turned to him. "You should check on that woman, sir. Maybe she can bring light on this situation before Aulus leads us to oblivion."

Vespasian smiled at his friend and started walking to his tent, whereas the soldiers around were preparing to battle in the very certain future.

Before he could get close enough, the Roman general heard a shout and saw a horde of barbarians pouring out of the forest.

In a flash, Roman archers shot their arrows and rained fire on them.

Within seconds, Vespasian ran to the palisade and shouted. "Defend your land! Defend the glory of Rome!"

Just as he said that, a battering ram was seen going full speed at their gate. Legionaries pulled their shields up and had their gladius ready for killing.

Time for Rome's children to fight.

* * *

**Thank you for your attention and messages, it has been a pleasure writing this.**

**The update was slow due to college but I promise more chapters by next week. I have no beta reader so if anyone wants to volunteer I would be delighted.**

**I would also like to thank the guy or gal who provided constructive criticism in the reviews. Thank you.**

**Comment, rate, subscribe. Who is your favorite Roman? Who would you like to die? Just kidding, I am not GRR Martin.**

**And no I do not own Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire but I would like to.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the little wait but here we are. Now things are getting rather serious and some others have begun to notice the turmoil up north. Well, the game has begun to move on its wheel (Daenerys is not here to try and break it, of course) so here we go. Enjoy.**

* * *

"Roma Invicta!" A centurion shouted as he cut down a mail coated warrior.

The legionaries immediately returned the shout, charging back at the attacking army and cutting down any unlucky fellow to be in their path. The battering ram was stopped short through a hail of pila and arrows. Ladders were then pressured to climb into the fort, but were easily pushed down by the legion soldiers, all the while the cavalry was prepped for an attack on the enemy flanks.

Military might was a very well-known concept to Vespasian. He was acutely aware of the legion's supreme prowess in close combat and their training. However, the enemy's blades were very sturdy against their own.

It was like some material that was better than iron.

Problematic, indeed.

Some gladius even broke, and legionaries were forced to take other swords from fallen comrades or the enemy's themselves.

Vespasian had a frown on his face but soon his cold eyes fell upon the enemy trying to break and flee.

Clearly, they underestimated the legion's discipline and were now attempting to fall back into the woods.

"No mercy! Cut them down!" Lucius shouted to the Sarmatian alae and the Roman heavy cavalry, which immediately took to pursue their enemy.

Horses whined and riders shouted their approval at the order. The barbarian army warriors screamed and shouted at each other.

The gate was opened and from there in patches of little to no time, a massacre occurred.

A few were brave enough to form a shield wall but were easily cut down by the legionary cavalry. Within mere moments, it was all over.

Roman soldiers then marched to the front of the fort and established a long line of over five thousand blades, a barracuda if one could describe its terrible prowess, awaiting the order to march forward if stragglers remained loyal to their cause.

Aulus sneered at the enemy. "I want prisoners. Get me that one protected by that force of cavalry." He pointed at a warrior that was being escorted out of the battle.

The Sarmatian warrior, Makvar, simply nodded and went forward with his best companions. They shot arrows and spears at enemies that were luckless or foolish enough to stand near them.

All the while, the legionaries and other officers shouted their victory. "Roma Victor! Roma Eterna!"

Vespasian simply rode back to his camp and see if the barbarian woman was in good shape.

What he did not expect was her smirking into nothing, as if celebrating.

Eyes widening slightly, Vespasian them schooled his face into complete neutrality.

Entering the tent silently, the woman immediately looked at him and her face retracted into one of fear or terror.

"I will bring you food." He then made a few mannerisms of the action, gaining a brief smile from the woman. "I am also keeping an eye on you, wench."

She only smiled and made the same mannerisms, then grabbed a hand and patted her belly.

Vespasian smiled back, though his eyes darkened in anger and distrust. "We will talk later."

Departing the tent, the woman chuckled slightly into the wind while Vespasian smirked.

Things were getting rather interesting in this dour land.

* * *

Lord Jason Lannister was shaking his head in disbelief and surprise. Since when did the Finger ever get mysterious visitors? And by a huge host, no less, already carving a path into the peninsula.

Rumor had it that Robin the Saddle, a member of the Flint family and disgraced lord, was captured along with his daughter. Their army was also completely decimated within a battle along with coasts.

According to his spies and certain merchants that dared to venture into the North, the host consisted of more than forty thousand blades, counting their heavy cavalry.

Their standard was a yellow and fierce looking eagle, usually with the background having a red kind of tint.

The Lannister lord thought of a couple of things. Who the hell were these upstarts? What did they want? Where was Lord Rickard Stark?

Nodding to himself, Lord Jason began writing a raven to the Warden of the North and acquire as much information as he could from the man.

Both had met at a tourney and struck an odd kind of camaraderie that had them exchange correspondence from time to time.

Even if he was interfering into territory that was not his responsibility, the Neck and the sea, a short one at that, were the only things stopping the host from invading the Westerlands and wreaking havoc at their pleasure.

The recent pretenders to the throne had depleted the south of men, coin and morale. Truly, an invasion by a host of that number could prove problematic.

His spies had also supplied terrible news. As if he needed any more.

These upstarts also had catapults and other strange devices in their arsenal. Who was to say they were not effective in battle?

Who could say the rest of Westeros was safe? Just where did they come from?

It would only take a word from his icy and sour friend for Lord Jason to call the banners and join the fight through his own fleet at Lannisport.

The Targaryens were much too busy trying to quell rebellions and pretenders to care for now.

Later on, maybe but not at the moment.

Of course, the quirky and dangerous Greyjoys needed to be watched at all times.

He would also send a raven to the Tyrells and the Redwynes to continue their usual patrols and even extend the limits on his sea just this one time.

Sighing, Lord Jason retreated to his chambers and smirked when he saw his wife already bare and awaiting his presence.

Ironically acting like his own house sigil, he pounced on her and laughed when she giggled.

* * *

"What do we know of this host?" Lady Jocelyn Mormont asked, her attractive features narrowing in concentration at the missives from Lord Flint.

The most powerful and important lords from the North were seated at Lord Rickard Stark's tent, all pale and wary.

"Large and well organized." The smooth voice of Lord Aldamar Bolton answered. "Impressive."

Lord Umber growled. "We will strike them so hard they will be thrown all the way to Essos."

An uneasy silence followed when Lord Rickard cleared his throat, so as to get the table to quiet before the lords continued their exchanges.

"I have received another missive. Very troubling, my lords." He began, his voice icy yet strong. "This host has smashed the rebels led by Robin the Saddle and is now marching towards Ironhove."

Lord Amos Karstark shook his head. "He will not stand a chance, my lord. The enemy is too many for his ruined and forsaken village he calls a castle."

The comment got a few chuckles and even a slight smile from Lord Stark. "Lord Flint has surprised us from time to time, I am sure he can."

"Not at his state, my lord." Lord Brynden Glover announced, his grey eyes sad. "His son died and from what Ser Jon reports, he has been drinking into stupor ever since."

Everyone in the table knew of the lord's late wife untimely death and his subsequent rage. He refused to clear his head for a full year, grief and rage overtaking him.

He even attempted to destroy the godswood in a cold rage and cursed all gods, both old and new, day and night.

It was his son, who was now dead, that took him out of his depression and brought forward a just, albeit cankerous, ruler.

Lord Stark sighed sadly. "The host has also sent riders and small detachments of their army to raid and take over small villages and castles. So far, six have fallen."

"We do know how they fight, though!" Lord Umber announced, his eyes darkening in rage. "They fight in close formation, have short stabbing swords and are hard as nails."

Lord Bolton nodded along. "Very impressive, if I may be able to say. The scouts of Lord Flint have reported that they prefer to fight in close combat though have been known to feint retreat, then strike hard."

"A very well organized enemy and they march fast, my lord." Lady Mormont shook her head. "How many men do we have available in Moat Caillin?"

"A thousand, all well trained or so I am told." Lord Stark's features then contorted into confusion and wariness. "My lords, what are your thoughts on asking for help from the South?"

Lords Umber and Glover immediately reddened in rage while Lady Mormont sneered. Lord Bolton, however, was silent. His eyes were alight with curiosity at the prospect.

One of the other lords, Wyman Manderly, was also curious of the prospect. He had been silent the whole time but right now he was ready to stand for his lord and prove his loyalty should it was needed.

"All of you are aware of my friendship with Lord Jason Lannister." They nodded. "We have exchanged correspondence through the years since then. He has proven to be a sharp ally and full of wise counsel. He has mentioned that, in case of the most of dire circumstances, he is prepared to call his banners and join our fight."

"For what? Gain the Finger?" Lord Umber bellowed. "Those bastards have always looked down upon us! Always feeling so mighty and superior."

"Not to mention that they are rather exhausted from the Targaryens always shortening their garrisons due to their little hissy fights."

The last comment from Lord Glover struck the table to laughter, with the exception of Lords Stark and Bolton. Both looked at each other and nodded.

"I am sure my fellow lords cannot think of any other contingency plans should the need arise to call for help elsewhere?" Lord Bolton stated. "If so, please we are all waiting for them."

Silence followed.

"If I may be of assistance, my lords." Lord Wyman stood up and stamped his hands on the table. "I am sure that Lord Stark has thought of other contingency plans, and all are rather precarious to take. Who should be put our trust on should the need arise, hm? Could it be the Greyjoys? Those backstabbing cunts would use the opportunity to sack some of our cities if they even agree to help us."

"Now, we know our enemy is extremely disciplined, very well organized and from the looks, led. Should we then start recruiting Wildlings? Sure, they are fierce fighters. Would you put your trust in their battle prowess, albeit breaking centuries of tradition? The Night's Watch would be most displeased."

Lord Bolton smirked while Rickard smiled at one of his dearest friends. The other lords had been paling at the prospects of trusting other sources of help, should the North be unable to contend the horde of newly arrived warriors in the Finger.

"The Targaryens? As Lord Glover promptly stated, they are rather busy having a hissy fit for that gods damned iron chair. The Reach is too far and the Riverlands too damn weak. House Tully could be of assistance, provided we accept raw recruits and shit faced knights that cannot even wield a sword at the dawn of day."

Finally, the table erupted into laughter. Lord Bolton was holding his chest as he probably laughed for the first time in years.

The lord of White Harbor smiled at them. "While House Lannister is of dubious nature, we have all trusted our Warden many a time, so I say we put our trust into him once again."

He then got up and, to the amazement of the others, put a fist to his chest. "Not a step back."

Lord Bolton stood up as well and did the same thing. "Our blades are sharp."

"Winter is coming."

The rest of the lords continued with their own house mottos, all issuing faces of determination and bravery.

The Warden of the North smiled warmly for the first time since he heard of Lord Flint's situation.

His bannermen were rather odd, but he would never change them for anyone else.

* * *

"Fall back! Fall back!" A knight shouted in terror as their men were cut down to pieces by the red cloaked, nightmarish demon men.

Not too far from Flint's Finger, Irondove, House Tremon stood with a garrison of three hundred warriors, all seasoned veterans.

They had fought bandits and pirates when Lord Flint had called the banners. However, most of their men had gone to fight Robin the Saddle.

Days had passed with no news until a raven announced the death of Fredrik Flint, and the subsequent destruction of over a thousand of their soldiers.

To make matters worse, other lords and villages began refusing orders from their overlord and made preparations in case of the war actually reaching them.

Out of nowhere, these strange soldiers then appeared and wreaked havoc upon anyone near them.

Lord Elmer, his stubborn neighbor, had died in battle mere days before his murderers reached House Tremon's gates.

A cavalry detachment under his master at arms was then sent to delay them, in a brave attempt to let people enter the small yet sturdy castle from the surrounding villages and farms of Lord Abel Tremon.

It was all for naught.

Their cavalry perished almost instantly and the strange enemy soldiers marched with fierceness and brutality entailed in their steps. None of the knights in the castle survived the onslaught.

Those who resisted, that is.

However, and strangely enough, their supposed leader was giving orders and the women, along with the children, were left unharmed.

The soldiers that surrendered were then knocked down but spared of any further punishment.

Lord Abel thought then that this enemy perhaps had some honor in them that he could appeal to.

Sadly, the enemy spoke a different language that sounded a little like the fabled Valyrian.

The enemy soldiers were busy acquiring weapons, pushing people away and studying his small castle structures.

Just as he was about to put down his sword, the strangest of individuals approached him.

He wore some kind of helmet that had a… broom? Feathers closely packed together in color red.

The eyes of this individual were steely blue, with a hint of grey. He wore armor that was segmented into several layers of perhaps steel? Maybe iron? However, the design was brilliant, provided he wanted to run and not be protected fully in battle.

"Tu es dux?" The words sounded fairly classical, as if spoken by a noble. The man also stood with haughtiness truly only compared to a Lannister cunt.

The young lord pointed at himself and said loudly. "Lord Abel Tremon."

"Tu Lord Abel Tremon?"

Shaking his head almost in annoyance, he referred to himself again. "Abel Tremon, me."

The strange man nodded, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Eusurient?" He hesitated but then his eyes sparkled. "Hunngri?"

"Hungry?" Abel chuckled bitterly. Here he was, almost groveling to an outsider that had him and his castle in chains. "Yes." He nodded to emphasize his point.

Gesturing with a hand, the soldier took the lord to his own premises and ordered to his men something in their foul yet noble like sounding language.

"Kill me now." He muttered while the supposed enemy leader looked at him with a superior, smug smirk.

His father was probably rolling in his grave.

* * *

Lord Robert Flint was snarling in rage as he saw the banners of the enemy flowing with might outside his castle.

The host had arrived less than a day before. Reduced in number yet with enough men to take his castle in a heartbeat. Of course, they did not know that.

Ser Jon was preparing what remained of the garrison, less than a thousand men. All were busy preparing what remained of the gates and guarding the walls.

He knew this was to be his last battle. He also knew he would reunite with his wife, his children and his ancestors.

Most likely.

Maybe.

Lord Flint sighed and shook his head. Robin the Saddle may have been dead at the hands of these arseholes but now his castle was set to be his own tomb.

"My lord?" Ser Jon entered the main hall, if one could it that. It had lost its prestige and power years earlier. "We have made our best to prepare for the incoming assault."

"Good."

"I would like to advise for you to leave while you can, there is a secret passage underneath the stables that you can take. Maybe House Tremon will surely take you in. Lord Stark will march by and then you can join his forces."

The lord looked at his master at arms. "And you?"

"Stay and fight until my last breathe." The younger man answered honestly. "Get you time to flee while we take as many of those bastards as we can with us."

Lord Robert gave him a glare. "That is the thing. My son did not flee, neither will I. Much rather stand proud and fight until my bones break and vision goes dark. I am prepared to join my family in whatever afterlife there is with honor."

"This is my family's ancestral home, long before the Starks ever got here or the Greyjoy cunts became rulers of their shit islands."

He unsheathed his sword. "I will die avenging my son and staying true to my family."

The speech brought a smile of admiration to Ser Jon. "Shall we, my lord?"

"Lead the way, my faithful steward. Today we take some red cloaks with us."

"If only they were Lannisters." Ser Jon japed.

Lord Flint laughed. "If only!"

Those were the last words between the two as soon after, the marauding army assaulted the walls and laid waste to the poorly armed defenders.

* * *

"The walls have been breached." Vespasian told Aulus. "Our men are already taking the main structure surrounding the villages."

General Aulus nodded. "Fascinating, really. A structure made out of stone and walls protecting villages from an overlord who looks over them. Some kind of king or ruler?"

"Most likely sir, though I can honestly say that this fort has not seem much of repair for ages."

The other Roman waved him off. "We will repair this ancient monstrosity with our own techniques as soon as we communicate with Rome."

Vespasian almost sneered at the bravado of his superior. "You think we can still communicate with Rome? The twenty ships we sent have not been back for a month now."

"Do not concern yourself with diplomacy, leave that to me." Aulus answered coldly. "You are here to provide military counsel, nothing more."

Vespasian nodded, albeit his mind was plagued with wishes to throttle the man. "Of course."

"How is Lucius doing?"

"He has captured a few towns and structures such as this one, but smaller from what he says. Some two thousand prisoners and gold."

Aulus nodded. "At least someone is doing their job."

"He has sent scouts north and south. There is a structure that has impressed him. The biggest fort he has ever seen outside Roman territory."

"And he wants to take it?"

"He has sent scouts to see more of it, but other than that he has taken over a castle of some little chieftain called Tremon, more than a hundred leagues away from here."

Aulus sneered but said, "Tell him to stay there unless the site is ripe for the taking. I do not want unnecessary casualties…"

"Why?"

"We could be here for months, perhaps a year or more until Rome replies."

Vespasian rolled his eyes discreetly. "Of course, sir."

"Tell Makvar to continue with his raids, we will need slaves to make this castle look half decent. It looks like absolute shit."

Departing his superior's tent, Vespasian thought of one thing.

If there was one thing about him was that he was cunning. He also had the support of the vast majority of the army.

If things came to the absolute worst, he was prepared for it.

He was now hungry for knowledge. This place's language was one of them and that woman was going to help him achieve it, whether she liked it or not.

Entering his tent as his friend led the charge into the poorly defended structure, he saw the female sitting on a rock, looking at her bare feet.

Quiet as a shadow, he walked and sat next to her, a plate in his hands. "Hungry?"

"Si." She replied, her thick accent making him sneer almost.

Almost.

He then mimicked someone talking with his hand. "Tongue?"

"… Language?" She then began to speak and looked at him for confirmation.

Nodding with a slight smile, he pointed at his head. "I want to learn it."

And from there, the most powerful man in the Roman Army began to learn the common tongue while his silver tongued superior struggled with communicating with Rome and his men.

* * *

**No army is perfect, far from it. Every single one struggles with problems within, none more than the Roman Army itself, often plagued with jealousy and contempt. Of course when working towards a common goal, they ignored them and fought together. When not in danger, they fought themselves and ruined chances. **

**Now you see some of the game moving, changing, advancing. For the hardcore book readers, you may be somewhat familiar or have heard the names mentioned here. They are very old by the time Ned begins to learn his first words as a child.**

**Thank you for reading and remember, comment, rate and subscribe. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: There will be subtle hints as to what the Romans will do if things go well, or their way I should say. You may notice here the constant tribulations and tense atmosphere back in Irondove (Segesticum) for Vespasian and Aulus. **

**Also, language barriers will be realistic in the coming future. **

**Finally, to let you guys go and enjoy, slavery will play a key role in this chapter. You will see why Vespasian is doing what he is doing. All I am saying is that he is a very cautious military officer by nature, very cunning.**

* * *

Lord Tremon had to give it to these men. They were well organized and led.

The arrogant enemy officer, Lucius, who he identified as such due to his barking towards the men and the strange and idiotic helmet he wore, was all smiles.

That was until less than a few hours ago. He had gotten a message from a rider and frowned.

Without preamble, he barked some more orders and went inside with more officers and soldiers, probably to have a meeting.

Abel was not complaining about their hospitality, at his own home, since they had let him be without much fuss but not without pestering him with questions in their own language.

He just sat there and gave them a blank stare, then shrugged.

The main officer of their army then helped himself with some old women and took them to his quarters.

Abel did not know whether to be more horrified of some fetish of his or the fact that they were teachers, and as such he was demanding to know the language.

'_I think I would settle for his strange fetishes.' _He thought with an amused smile.

If the enemy got wind of their language they would surely be even more efficient in intercepting messages, talk with the townsfolk and subsequently raze the region even more.

Shrugging, he got up and walked towards his personal balcony, where he saw the red cloaked soldiers standing at attention on his walls and small streets.

Surely, his castle was small for a host of over five thousand, that much was certain.

Even then, they managed by raiding around his lands and taking food away from his own people.

Right then he felt guilt and shame.

His people were starving, being beaten and raped at the moment and he was amusing himself with bland stupid tales.

Not anymore.

Abel needed to find a way to help them as fighting them was completely out of the question.

* * *

"A host of over thirty thousand moving down the region?" Centurion Cassius raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

Lucius nodded. "Indeed. If they are better armed than the fools we have bested here, then we need to retreat."

"What about that strange fortress? If we take it, then we can stall them long enough for General Vespasian to get here."

Lucius almost smirked at the fact that his legionaries were also loyal to Vespasian and not Aulus. Cassius said so himself for the rest of the people inside.

"We would need at least twenty thousand men to take that monstrosity. With our five thousand we would be massacred." The general shook his head. "No, we need to move to Segesticum. We will be able to defend it as Vespasian has seen to it that it is prepared for incursions."

The men nodded in approval of the plan. "What about this fortress, sire?"

Staring at Cassius' brown eyes, Lucius smirked. "Rid of the food and anything useful. We shall leave nothing for the barbarians here."

Cassius approved of the plan with a smile of his own.

Scorched earth policy was not unknown to the Roman military. It was duly needed in cases of hordes rampaging through a region. They were truly demoralizing to the enemy and subsequently made them fight against one another or desert the cause, and then the legions swept in to utterly destroy them.

"What of the governor of this… fortress?" Legion Commander Cornelius Dilius asked.

Lucius paused and stared at the desk where they were all seated around.

The little shit could be useful and in case of… dire circumstances he could provide a valuable hostage. The old women and men were also useful and would take priority as high privileged prisoners of war.

Abel though… Lucius smirked. "We shall take him with us. He could provide a valuable hostage. If not, we will slit his throat and be done with it."

Orders given, the officers made their way outside and began shouting orders.

Roman soldiers then rampaged through stables, taverns and houses in search of supplies. The townsfolk were smart and did not provide resistance though a knight stabbed a legionary in the face, killing him.

In response, he was crucified for all to see before the legion departed the fortress, their lord taken captive along with the wisest people.

And from there, history unfolded even more, ever changing and drifting.

* * *

"My lord." Lord Bolton frowned as he entered his superior's tent. "There are urgent news from Lord Lannister."

Lord Rickard Stark raised an eyebrow. "What are they?"

"I believe is disrespectful to read messages with your name in it, my lord."

The grey eyed lord smiled. "Come now, Aldamar." Lord Stark japed, for the first time in months. "You are one of my most trusted advisers; I think it is fair to say you should be more involved with what is going on. Your counsel is always appreciated."

Aldamar gave a small yet genuine smile to his overlord. "Very well."

After reading the missive twice, Lord Bolton frowned again and this time the Stark lost his smile too. They were probably grim news.

"The ironborn are blocking any of his attempts to pass through their sea." Lord Bolton sneered. "Pirate scum."

Rickard sighed. "Scum they may well be, but this gives us a dire disadvantage. A war on two fronts is now out of the question."

"These strange people were spotted retreating from Lord Tremon's holdfast, scarcely close to Moat Cailln."

"They must know of our march already by now…"

A grim feeling began to settle in the tent, one even Lord Bolton was uncomfortable in.

"What do you propose, Aldamar?"

Lord Bolton simply looked at his overlord and, dare he say it, childhood friend. "Half the garrison of Moat Caillin, get it for the war and then march to the Flint in full strength. Intimidation may work for these…. individuals."

Nodding, the other lord replied, "A sound plan. Our riders have reported that Irondove is now serving as their main headquarters. The walls are being reinforced as we speak and the city accommodated to house thousands of warriors."

"A direct assault is our best and only choice, Rickard."

Said lord smiled grimly at his friend for using his name. "Only option, yes. Maybe we can stall and delay them inside that damned castle before Lord Jason arrives with his host. He will take at least six months, but I believe our bannermen can do that."

"Never forget that our blades are sharp, my lord."

"Winter is coming, Aldamar. We shall bring the full might of the North and make this people regret the choice of rampaging through our lands."

Aldamar nodded with a very small smirk. "I will send my best riders to scout ahead of our march."

It was odd, some said. Lord Rickard Stark was already an anomaly for having friends within the South in the forms of Lord Jason Lannister and Prince Olario Martell. The latter was too far to even be considered to send help for, but funds he could provide.

Lord Stark was a proud investor of the Martell Navy, and Olario never forgot to remind him in their missives. Their ships were slowly but surely venturing north now with their products and spices.

A match had been in the works between his son Darick Stark and Julianne Martell. He was a second son and a man to be watched in the future due to his martial prowess.

His first son, on the other hand, was betrothed to Lady Eleana Bolton. Arton was bright, studious and cunning, not to mention very charming though lacked martial prowess. Eleana was said to be smart and charming, not to mention beautiful.

It was all a game, some said too. Keeping the Martells and Lannisters close for they were powerhouses in the south and could provide wise allies should they were needed in the future.

House Stark, of course, had some enemies. Wildlings, House Baratheon at times and fierce rivalry with the Riverlands. The Reach was also a place of upstarts he did not like in the slightest while the Martells shared the old blood of his ancestors and were the fiercest fighters in Westeros.

People then wondered about his friendship with Lord Aldamar Bolton.

The man had been a ward in Winterfell and both played as children. Once they reached seven and ten, they parted ways but not before swearing to keep each other in contact.

Aldamar had been quiet, shy but sharp as a child while Rickard was brash, loud and obnoxious, with a big cunning side, which was probably why Aldamar established a friendship with him in the first place. His friendship with the Bolton lord quieted much of the loud nature, much to his father's approval.

His friend was also an excellent governor and bright commander, much like he was. Finally, Aldamar was his Lord Hand in all but name.

Oh, his ancestors were probably tossing and whining in their tombs, perhaps the heavens too. He did not care, though.

House Stark needed revolution to survive and adapt in a land where those who did not, perished.

Of course, House Bolton was also the second most powerful house in the north and the one who produced the second fiercest fighters in the whole region. Only the Starks and Umbers were able to match that fierce determination and, somewhat, the discipline.

Only time would tell if his ideas that had some lords revolted and others intrigued would be beneficial in the long run.

Friendship with Lannisters, Martells and Boltons. Who could have thought such a future for House Stark?

Lord Rickard gave a small smile and continued to talk with Aldamar about battle tactics and the situation at hand.

It was refreshing to talk to a lord that was not only loyal but also intelligent and sharp.

* * *

"Lucius is coming back." Aulus stated with a sober look. "An army of barbarians is on their way to us, it seems."

Vespasian nodded. "They have not taken kindly to us taking this region, clearly."

Preparations had been made even before the missive was sent.

Once the fortress had been taken and the pitiful militia reduced to nothing but smithereens, Roman legionaries, engineers and builders began construction of defences and reinforcing the weakened walls as fast as they could.

Aulus constantly complained about the progress being too slow as he had wanted to leave the newly named city Segesticum heavily reinforced before launching an assault on the region Lucius had claimed was scarcely defended but quickly changed his mind as more than thirty thousand barbarians were descending upon them.

The locals had been silent and mostly cooperative, though the language barriers had slowed progress of integration and assimilation, as Romans liked to do once conquering.

Of course, while Aulus complained and whined, Vespasian had been learning the language with the wench they captured close to the coasts.

Prisoners were mostly well fed but kept to themselves and only accepted nourishment, never trying to integrate conversations with the Roman soldiers.

It was obvious for the languages being so different.

Vespasian supposed these barbarians spoke harshly and gutturally while Latin was beautiful and fluent, softer than their barbarian type of dialect. He supposed he would visit the wench and maybe bed her if he was in the mood to let steam go. He could get a slave from the locals but that was out of the question. Angering was not an option at the moment, not with Rome quiet.

However, Aulus and Vespasian seemed to be even more at odds with one another. Makvar had sensed the rift and often avoided Aulus as the sneers of contempt and ridiculous snaps of anger were targeted towards him for some strange reason.

"I have sent out hunters and raiders to pillage the farms. Our slaves are proving rather hard to lead, though."

Aulus sneered. "I do not care, increase the whips and floggings. If not, set the example."

The other man was internally angered. This was a land not supposed to be landed upon and he wanted to increase the folk's anger upon their new conquerors.

With that army fast approaching, they could revolt and create a war on two fronts. That would end Roman supremacy.

"Have you looked into their smiting? I am rather curious." Vespasian commented. "Their swords are strong, and ours sometimes break upon impact. We could take unnecessary casualties should it continue in the future."

"I know." The other general replied quietly. "Alexius and Marcus have been capturing blacksmiths and treating them fairly to see if they can produce it for us. Only one has been cooperative and that was after they showed him Roman coins."

Anything made out of gold would entice any man, regardless of allegiance, to do as bid.

"Then it seems we should provide incentives to the others. We need blades for the coming battle."

Aulus regarding Vespasian with a slight sneer of contempt. Born in a simple village to unimportant parents, barely scrapping by compared to his own illustrious family with a great past.

Of course, Vespasian had proven to be an incredibly bright military officer and leader, much to his rage. The men looked up to him and admired the way he pranced around the camp like he was the overall leader.

To make matters worse, the barbarian auxilia also admired him, thanks to his bribes no doubt.

After this mess was over, he was going to have to deal with a possible usurper.

The word was strong, yes but Vespasian was a peasant that was given too much power for his own good. He would have made a fine centurion or perhaps a low legate, but no they had to give him a legion.

He almost laughed at the irony. They gave him a legion yet he commanded the whole army in all but name.

Lucius also admired him and that was one of the last things to convince Aulus that he had to get rid of Vespasian quietly.

Or… he smirked at the idea. Perhaps an accident…

In a battle, there was confusion and rage going all about.

Vespasian would have an honourable death and he would be revered in name for years to come. He supposed that he was actually being fair, giving Vespasian a good death for memories of years to come.

Aulus would assume overall leadership like he was supposed to and then take on these barbarians and see what he could plunder.

He could even establish a dynasty here, with Lucius as his second in command. That man, despite his allegiances, was of royal blood and did his duty as asked, regardless.

He was also the peace keeper between Vespasian and himself. Lucius resolved several disputes among them and even encouraged cooperation for the sake of the campaign.

Changes were needed, truly.

And Rome… he frowned. She had not replied to any of their missives and he already feared what Vespasian had mused a little while ago.

That Rome was not in their reach any more that the gods themselves thought of ridding them of their beloved mother and pitting them into a land that was strange and frightening.

Woe to those that tried to stop Rome's right to conquest.

Roman civilization was going to take these savages, despite their impressive technology in weapons, to all time heights.

After this host was taken care of, he would launch an assault, take that massive fort leagues away and then decide where to go. Most likely north despite the bitter cold they would find there.

Cold meant scarce defences while warmer climates…. Well, it was a null point, since the northern region had assembled a huge army but it was probably to their highest capabilities.

From their scout's observations, temperatures decreased rather dramatically north of the massive fortress in the region Lucius was raiding and exploring.

"Have you thought of what to do with that royal prisoner of yours?" Vespasian asked rather innocently as he continued sipping wine in the table.

Aulus wanted nothing but to end these slights against him, but all in due time. "Once we gain their language, we may begin to interrogate him."

"And you have anyone learning it?"

Suppressing the urge to growl, he nodded. "Marcus and Alexius are bright men, they have been forcing our new-found slaves to teach them. From what Lucius mentioned, he has done the same and brought selected elders to teach us as well."

"Very well." Vespasian stood up and glanced at his supposed superior. "I will start preparations for proper rations and supplies. A siege could be problematic with all of our men and no food, don't you think?"

Feeling his ire rise, Aulus sneered. "Just get out of my tent."

Nodding with a slight smirk, Vespasian left.

That fool had been getting rather abrasive as of late, too much indeed. Aulus contemplated to simply murder him in his tent but he knew Vespasian to be a good soldier with all their instincts and cunning.

He was likely trying to get a raise out of him hoping to kill and rid of him.

Aulus nodded to himself and summoned Alexius, plans beginning to pop into his mind. He could talk to Marcus but the man was probably going to disagree. He was a foolish honourable idiot, intelligent but a fool all the same.

* * *

"This town and situation are bonkers." Severus shook his head. "The slaves are uncooperative and Vespasian has ordered us not to harm them. How can he expect them to work? We are the slaves here! Doing all this construction while they sit there and watch us!"

Marcianus groaned. "Would you shut up! The centurion will make us clean the latrines if you don't stop your fucking whining!"

"And you two, with your recent racket, have gained us the attention of dear lovable Sixtus." Antoninus sneered as their centurion looked at them with rage engulfing his face. "Get to work and shut the hell up!"

Grumbling, the three began to work while the so called slaves just passed food and supplies among the troops while others did cooperate once gaining somewhat of a companionship with legionaries.

Severus had gained some enraged locals when he tried to put on his so called charm and kissed a young woman.

He got punched in the face by an impressive looking boy who, much to Antoninus' amusement, began to shout in their guttural language towards Severus, who was up and already punching back.

The brawl ended when Sixtus came in and broke his wooded staff on Severus' back. "Vespasian's orders you idiots! No fucking with the locals, no trying anything funny, stop this shit already!"

"Yes sir!" The three shouted and saluted, with Severus sporting a broken lip. He then had the audacity to glower at the young boy that punched him, gaining a one eyed glare. The other eye was shut thanks to Severus' surprising punching power.

Sneering, Sixtus just shook his head and grumbled, "Fucking cunts."

They had breathed in relief before Antoninus punished Severus with a fist to his head, sending him tumbling about.

"Do that shit again and I will personally see to it that you are castrated!"

Marcianus sneered. "Would do a favour to these people, I am afraid."

The boy that had punched Severus had looked at them strangely, though his eyes began to twinkle in amusement.

He was probably enjoying the fact that his captors were fighting amongst each other and providing some amusement.

Going back to present, Antoninus looked around and saw that most of the slaves in all but name, as that was the norm nowadays with a so called land, so called enemy, so called leader etc. etc. were simply going by their business as if they were guests.

"Stop your shit!"

"Fuck off!"

Antoninus groaned as his friends started to bicker and probably getting into another fight.

Getting as far away as possible and using his dalabra to start working on another section of the wall, he saw Sixtus going towards them with rage radiating off his body.

Smiling in amusement, he proceeded to continue working, oblivious to the changes going around him.

As he thought that, he heard a shout and saw General Lucius entering with his legion, a blank look of determination in his face. He immediately landed on his feet from his horse and was escorted to Vespasian's tent by his personal guards.

Things were chaotic then.

Finally, some action was going to happen.

* * *

"Who in their right mind would do this?" Lord Stark was horrified beyond recognition.

They had reached Lord Abel Tremon's castle after two weeks of constant missives from several lords.

Lord Manderly had reported that White Harbour was safe and clear of any enemies though the Neck had been crawling with them.

"Punishment, it seems." Aldamar stated rather coldly. "Make an example out of him for the rest to follow."

There was a cross and a young man already in stages of decomposition. He was nailed to the cross at his feet and just above the wrists.

By his body's state, the poor lad had been dead for quite a while.

The fortress was deserted with only a selected few out of the original one thousand that lived there before the invasion of the red cloaks.

His men had heard from locals that they wore red cloaks and so the nickname became norm among his ranks.

"Just one, though." Jocelyn Mormont remarked quietly. "At least it was only one."

Aldamar looked at his leader and friend. "It does appear that these red cloaks are fond of setting examples out of people to ensure…. peace."

"Peace." Lord Stark snarled. "Peace using such frivolous acts! Barbarians they are!"

"That may be so, my lord." Lord Wyman looked down, showing emotion for the lad. "He will be given a proper burial."

Lord Stark had been on edge since that sighting. It was haunting his dreams, provided he could sleep a few scarce hours.

Aldamar made him company along with the obnoxious Lord Umber.

"This is a war on the mind, my friend. Remember our lessons with the Master at Arms?" Lord Bolton told his friend with a somber look.

While the Boltons had been extremely brutal, cruel and deadly, Aldamar was an exception to the rule. Despite his father's sneers, beatings and rebukes, he had grown into a proper young lord thanks to being a ward at Winterfell.

During their younger years, they had attended war lessons with the Master at Arms and Lord Theon Stark.

War on the mind was played to instil fear and disarray in the enemy ranks. The Starks scarcely followed it but Lord Theon had been the exception and encouraged his son to learn how to win a war through playing with the minds of the enemy.

Of course, he would only use that in moments that required it.

He was not a Baratheon usurper or a Targaryen bloodthirsty king.

He was a wolf, one to care for his pack and place of birth.

One to always put his needs second place in order to protect the North and his family.

Aldamar was much the same, though probably more capable of cruelty given the order or incentive.

He was a Bolton, after all.

"We shall make camp and resume marching tomorrow."

Lord Bolton nodded. "We will reach Irondove in less than two weeks."

On the side, Lord Umber just nodded with a smirk, eager to battle these red cloaks.

With that, they parted ways to see to their men and needs.

The men needed to be in good spirits before the coming battle.

Lord Stark did not know it, but he and his men were going to change history forever.

* * *

**He says Baratheon usurper because he remembers how Orys Baratheon took the region, standard and daughter of the original Storm King during Aegon's Conquest.**

**War on the mind would be psychological warfare, naturally. **

**Things are finally settling in. There will be two chapters before a timeline begins to start the official story with a bang. **

**It is official, also. Jon Snow will be a POV character in the story to follow this one. That is the only thing I will say. **

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter and please comment, rate, subscribe. **

**To the reviewer reminding me of the English longbow, thank you for that tip. You will see that I am working on it in the next chapter. Thanks!**


	5. Chapter 5

**_"Bella, horrida bella."_ Roman proverb. **

**Wars, Horrid Wars. **

* * *

Lord Stark had a blank face when Irondove came into view, hiding his surprise that the once ruined castle had most of its walls fixed and sporting more men than he could think of in defense.

From the accounts of the probably dead Lord Flint, these barbarians had at least thirty to forty thousand heavily armed men.

This was going to be a bloody and long battle. There was a need for ending the siege quickly and swiftly.

Battering rams were being made and most of the men knew how to scale a wall if need be.

According to the locals they had helped on the way, the red cloaks had recruited, in force, elders and maesters wherever they could. This was alarming but also quite fortuitous.

This could mean they were learning the language, as the locals described the red cloaks speaking a strange tune of soft and deep growls.

At least, Lord Jason was on his way to the Flint with a force of twenty five thousand blades. Thanks to the idiotic ironborn, he had to make a detour, so four months were added. Those six months were miscalculated by Lord Jason in his missives.

"We shall lay siege and make camp around the castle." Lord Stark ordered. "Beware of raids, take all the food you can from the outskirts, we will starve them."

"At once, my lord." Aldamar had a small smirk and laid his orders to the other lords, who then passed it to the men. Within hours, the castle was surrounded and completely cut off from the outside.

However, one thing that was alarming was the enemy's complete blank faces and lack of panic.

It was indeed something they had gone through, it seemed.

Looking as the sun set, Lord Stark looked at the castle and said, "Winter is coming, red cloaks."

For the next night, they made camp and the men took turns to man the sentries around the castle in case of an outright attack.

Lord Stark knew he could not take any chances with these unpredictable soldiers.

And that is what he feared the most. They appeared to be purely professional soldiers born in fire and conflict. The accounts of people as to how they destroyed several hosts, albeit small, of knights was proof enough.

They would rain down heavy spears, subsequently charging and taking the fight to them. Needless to say, most of the knight forces and levies panicked and fled before they could even cause enough damage among the red cloaks.

In his tent, he was reading missives from other lords and the Targaryen king himself.

They were quite worried and asking what in the seven hells was going on.

Lord Baratheon, despite being somewhat of an arrogant arse, was asking for his health and what was going on.

Then the Tyrells were also interested and prepared to help should the invaders go deep into the Riverlands, who had also inquired on the situation but did not mention any help, thanks to the rivalry currently going on between Houses Stark and Tully.

As usual, the Greyjoys did not send a thing while the Martells were asking permission to send a detachment of their navy with a thousand elite spearmen under Prince Caspian himself.

He smiled at how his friend was sending his most trusted commander and son to the war, so he wrote that he refused to put his son in danger but welcomed any other help seen fit by the Prince of Dorne.

Last but certainly not least was the Targaryen king. Aegon III Targaryen was a serious, well mannered man that carried grief from ages past. Lord Stark liked the man and how serious he took reigning after the civil wars and pretenders trying to seize the throne.

Sure, he sometimes wondered why the Targaryens could rule now without dragons but he would be lying if the dynasty had not provided good kings in the past and now.

Some said he was a broken king, ruling a broken realm. Plots and schemes reigned along with murder.

However, Lord Stark admired the man as the king had endured much and strived to put the realm under peace and prosperity though could not do so in terms of charisma.

The king had asked on the situation and demanded in very civil terms to know what Lord Stark was attempting to do with such a massive force in the Flint.

Lord Stark knew it could look like a diversion to invade the Riverlands but he had no wish to invade that god forsaken land and its idiotic people. He had a land to defend and bleed for.

So in response, Lord Stark wrote the truth as befitting a Stark. No beating around the bush and no excuses.

He explained of a powerful force of unknown origin arriving at the Flint peninsula and wreaking havoc upon the region, going in raids as far as Greywater Watch and a short distance away from Moat Caillin.

However, he immediately wrote that the situation was under control and that his grace should not worry, as the invading force was being besieged and it was only a matter of time before it fell.

He also omitted the fact that these soldiers were so well organized they could rival the sellsword companies and the Unsullied in discipline and fearlessness. That could only bring Targaryen loyalists to the area and who knew what devastation that could be done upon the North.

Lord Stark sighed and shook his head. "May the gods protect us."

* * *

Vespasian frowned as he gazed into the enemy camp. They had their fortificationsurrounded and ready to starve it.

Thankfully, he had prepared for such eventuality as soon as Lucius sent a message about the large barbarian force moving swiftly down the region. His personal guards, at the command of Makvar had laid waste to several towns and fortifications, bringing food and supplies to their headquarters in large numbers. Surprising most, Vespasian ordered that women and children were to be spared and some of the men as well.

Some had called him a coward or a soft hearted general without courage. Among those was Aulus, the ever arrogant son of a whore that continued trying to undermine him. His close advisors and friends understood his motives, however.

In a strange land, full of unknown enemies and lacking concrete information, the best way to follow was to not anger the locals and defuse a war on two fronts. This would allow them to fight properly against the barbarian onslaught and most likely go on the offensive.

Nature in this place was similar to some of Rome's possessions, that much was certain when compared to Gaul and possibly Hispania, but the closest to it was Britannia and its mystical lands that Caesar had ravaged a century earlier.

Then of course, the language of this people. Guttural yet effective and somewhat easy to learn if given the time and patience. War gave none of those but Vespasian had his loyal man Marcellus on the task at the double.

Meanwhile, Lucius was drilling the men hard, something that all centurions, particularly Sixtus, enjoyed immensely.

"General!" The man he was thinking of, Lucius of Croton stepped into the tent. "There is a delegation of the barbarians at the gate, wearing white banners."

Vespasian raised his eyebrows.

White banners were not common but at least it did seem this land had some common cultural and military perks with Italia. These banners had been in use for quite a while signaling surrender or diplomatic talks, at the least.

These barbarians, just as he thought, were not so. For the contrary, they were sophisticated in their own way and actually quite diverse.

Things truly seemed to be looking up for them, provided they could communicate with them, which at the moment was almost impossible. Lucius himself, a very intelligent man, knew few words and his growls only came as threatening when attempting to communicate with the locals.

Aulus was also doing the impossible in undermining him and his motives, also trying to sweet talk into Lucius to rid of the so called "Vespasian charm" out of him.

"A distraction, surely." Vespasian answered coldly. "They must be perfectly aware that we do not speak their language, what with all the locals we left behind in our righteous wrath."

Lucius nodded. "Yes, I feared the same." The man seemed to ponder, his eyes narrowing. "If we could send a prisoner to them, one of not great importance?"

"And who would that be?"

The other officer shrugged. "That cunt we captured during our first day of offensives."

"Ah, the barbarian that tried to attack our camp?" Vespasian mused amusingly. "Why not? The leader of this fortress, however, we must keep under any circumstances."

"Of course, sire."

Vespasian smiled at Lucius, his eyes twinkling. "How is Aulus?"

"Drilling the man in his own way, annoyingly I must say." Lucius rolled his eyes. "That man has some military savvy but politics come first to him…. disgraceful dog."

Lucius Sempronius of Croton came from a family of great renown, much greater than Aulus' even. The Sempronia family traced its beginnings to the very start of the Republic of Rome after ousting the kings of Etrusca.

It had fallen under some hard times but most of its male members were highly renowned politicians and military officers, particularly Lucius.

The man was a genius, using any means necessary to win and bring glory to his people. The loyalty he displayed towards Vespasian was not unfounded, either, as the latter had tutored and mentored him to become a military officer of strategy and renown.

Aulus descended from a long line of successful leaders, surely, but his family did not reach the founding of their mother city. He was also an arrogant, greedy and angry man who preferred to sit on his laurels while the rest did the dirty work to get him glory.

He was a fair military officer, suppressing a slave revolt in Apulia, crucifying thousands of slaves and highwaymen that had profited from the conflict. Aulus Plautius was so successful he was immediately spotted by the Emperor, who then commissioned him to the new province of Pannonia, close to the Dacians. He oversaw the construction of roads there and even repulsed an attack on the province by the barbaric tribes over the Danube river.

However, his temper and lack of touch with his men made him a poor leader that only relied on immediate results, short term in time.

The long run was Vespasian's, by far.

If there was anything the man complimented about Vespasian was his cunning and keen intelligence both on and off the battlefield.

"Well, maybe some goodwill will get these barbarians to lay off our backs while we prepare sir?" Lucius pressed to the musing Vespasian, who then looked at him.

"Of course, then send that man to them. Make sure he speaks good graces of us."

Lucius chuckled and nodded, then leaving the tent to attend to his duties.

All the while, the ever watchful Aulus saw the scene, rage overtaking his senses as his objective continued treating with Vespasian.

That disgraceful lowborn needed to be dealt with at the double, or else risk his position as governor or perhaps….

Aulus smirked and left, his thoughts on a throne in a land far, far away from Rome.

* * *

Robin the Saddle had been a prisoner for gods knew how long. He was treated fairly, he was aware of that. The heavily armed soldiers that captured him had then taken his daughter out of his reach but he felt that she was safe, at least for a while.

The ungraceful wench was acting against his wishes, rushing into battle and getting captured. He did care, in a way, but the grief and rage that overtook him each time he laid eyes on her pulled a void between them since she was a child.

Her mother, Jeyne, had died giving birth to her. He raged, pillaged and killed out of anger and grief for years after that. His own men whispered that he may have gotten an heir but lost a good part of his soul alongside his beautiful wife.

He was then ignored in the lordship of the Finger and given to that disgraceful cunt that was his cousin. Robert Flint was an accomplished warrior in his youth and had a beautiful wife, who had also lost her life while giving birth to twins. Robert then drank himself into a stupor for years.

It seemed as a curse, really. Only thing was that the council ignored him at the time of succession due to his own grief and named Robert as Lord Flint, overseer of the Finger and parts of the Neck.

"Move." The red cloaked soldier snarled and pushed him towards the gates. "Idiot."

Amusing as it was, these barbarians began to learn insults in the common tongue right away. He did not know whether to laugh at that or rage at his humiliation.

Walking, he then saw the gates opening and a soldier wearing those red feathers but quite different from those in horses, shouting orders in their damnable tongue.

His eyes widened as he saw the grey direwolf banners of House Stark, being carried by riders.

As soon as he was outside the city gates, the soldiers behind him retreated and the gates closed with a resounding thud.

The irony here…

"Robin the Saddle…" One of the riders sneered. "Fancy seeing you here, kinslayer."

Ignoring him, Robin walked straight, head held high.

"Lord Stark will be interested in hearing from you." Another rider spoke, this one with a neutral tone. "Take this horse and come with us."

Not having an option now, the former leader of clans took the horse and began to trot the beast at a good pace towards the main camp of the Northern Host.

Plaguing him were thoughts as to how these men were going to take on the powerful read cloaks. They will be wasting their time if they wished to take them head on.

If they could starve them out, maybe they will have some hope of overtaking their discipline and sheer brutality.

Starvation did wonders, after all.

After arriving to the tent where Lord Stark was, he dismounted and was then escorted by bannermen of House Stark and Glover. The ones guarding the tent, he recognized to his bewilderment, were Boltons and Starks.

It seemed the feud between them ages past was being forgotten.

Well… that could play well in the coming onslaught.

"Robin the Saddle." Aldamar Bolton spoke softly, his blue eyes staring daggers at him. "Please… sit."

Taking a seat close to the table that served for strategic purposes, Robin found himself staring at the Bolton lord.

This man… he was feared and respected but ironically… liked. He treated his subjects fairly with an iron hand and punished crimes severely.

Night rights were taken away from the roster in the Dreadfort and Aldamar prided himself in being superior to his ancestors by upholding the laws suggested by the Starks.

A rumor circulated all around the North that Aldamar and Rickard were very close… as in lovers. However, Robin knew they were only close friends and almost brothers. Around the camp, men drank to their name and listed their accomplishments.

Aldamar was the right hand of the lord and well renowned tactician while Rickard was an excellent strategist.

"When Lord Stark called the banners, the Boltons were the first to march." Robin heard a Forrester bannerman whispering loudly to his drunken companion.

Although some Starks believed the Boltons to be brutal and extremely cruel, Rickard was known to admire their castle and laws.

Rapists were castrated and sent to the wall.

Murderers were subjected to amputation of the left hand.

Thieves were simply heavily fined or sent to the wall.

If it were not for his beautiful and honorable wife, he would have enforced those laws in Winterfell.

It clearly seemed that there was a new kind of Stark rising.

"Lord Stark will be here momentarily, please drink and eat." Aldamar nodded at the table, where a piece of venison and wine were placed by a soldier nearby.

Robin stared at the refreshments in disbelief and outright suspicion. Accepting this from a Bolton…

"I would not waste my time poisoning you, if that is what you are thinking." The Bolton lord spoke with a hint of amusement. "Now, dig in before Lord Stark deems you out of rights for being a kinslayer."

Sneering at him, Robin used the fork to stab at the piece of meat and then placed it in his mouth, praying to the gods that it would not have him choking in agony momentarily.

Aldamar chuckled quietly and resumed his reading.

It was no secret that Aldamar Bolton was a reader. He also loved music and despised parties without music or merriness.

Seeing no negative effects the food had on him, the last Flint lord dug in and began to devour the meat. His wine was finishing.

"Please have it full again, Theon."

"At once, my lord." The loyal guard replied, retrieving the glass without a look towards the man people called the Saddle and left to get a keg.

Lord Aldamar stared at Robin, his blue eyes cold and calculating. "Enjoying the food?"

Robin did not reply, he simply continued eating.

"I hope you are… Lord Stark is not known for being merciful towards rebels and kinslayers." The lord smirked. "Well… neither am I, to be perfectly honest."

'_What a fucking cunt.' _Robin thought as he finished with his plate.

Hearing the rustle of the tent moving, Aldamar smiled slightly. "Lord Stark, pleasure to have you with us here."

Lord Stark's eyes were cold as the north itself. "Has our _guest _been treated fairly, my friend?"

"Of course, my lord."

Seeing the Bolton lord smirking merrily and the Rickard staring at him with an unreadable expression, Robin faltered.

"Please, my friends, leave me and Aldamar with our guest."

Theon began to protest. "My lord, your protection…"

"I assure you Theon, me and Aldamar are quite well protected on our own, thank you."

Resigned but still ever faithful, Theon nodded and sent a glare of pure loathing towards Robin before departing the tent.

A silence spread through the three men, two staring at the one sitting.

"Now, rebel, you will speak and tell us what to expect from this red cloaks. If you cooperate, I promise… mercy."

Robin immediately looked at Bolton, to see if the man would provide a clue as to Lord Stark's words. He was stone faced, however.

"What do you wish to know?"

A hard punch from Aldamar sent Robin crashing to the ground. "You will refer to your lord with the proper respect, rebel."

"Now, now… it is quite alright my friend, I am sure our guest is just shell-shocked from the fighting with the red cloaks, is all."

Spitting blood from a bruised lip, Robin sneered. "What do you wish to know, _my lord_?"

"Staring with why you foolishly attacked them head on would be perfect, I am sure."

Robin snarled. "They had my daughter captured, what would you have done in my stead my lord?"

"Please." Lord Bolton shook his head. "We all know how much you despised her."

"She is my kin!"

"Kin which you slaughtered!" Lord Stark thundered. "You allowed this red cloaks perfect reign over the region with your shenanigans! Now they have the castle you were trying to usurp and a defensive position almost unbeatable!"

"They are unbeatable!" Robin Flint shouted back. "They slaughtered my men like nothing and then humiliated us further by attacking the castle and taking it within hours! You know nothing!"

Another punch from Aldamar sent him to the ground. "You are speaking to our lord and protector!" Bolton hissed like an angry snake.

"That would be our dear Targaryen king." Robin chuckled. "I can imagine his thoughts at the moment… has he written to you already, Lord Stark? How he will send an army to vanquish our foes?"

"He will do no such thing, fool." Lord Stark sneered at him, his eyes alight with disgust. "Lord Jason has called his banners and the Martells are sending an elite detachment of spearmen."

Robin was shocked. "You would allow foreigners in our land?"

This time, Aldamar did not punch him, but still hissed angrily. "Remember your betters, Robin."

"So many banners here… I wonder how the Targaryen dynasty will take it, oh…" Robin smirked. "The Riverlands will be quite preoccupied eh?"

Lord Stark sneered. "Name your price, filth."

"Oh? Price?" Robin appeared to be in shock.

Aldamar simply took a step closer to him. "Weaknesses of the caslte. You knew them well when you attacked. Tell us those and we… will have a new lord here."

"You would name me lord of the Flint's Finger? And why do I find myself dubious?"

"Because it is either you follow our lead or I will chop you to pieces and feed you to the monsters in the Neck."

Robin faltered slightly at such cruelty coming from Lord Stark.

Not even the wall was offered.

"Very well, I accept."

"Start with their tactics, I want to know everything of our enemy and then… please enlighten us on the castle."

* * *

**A/N: Longbow will make its nasty entrance next chapter, along with the fighting between the juggernauts Lord Stark and General Vespasian. **

**I assume some of you are shocked regarding the great friendship between Bolton and Stark but hey, it is an AU. There will be other houses next chapter and Lady Jocelyn Mormont will be provided a POV when the fighting starts with a bang. **


End file.
